Trophy
by President Luthor
Summary: Clark and friends travel to Toronto, where world leaders gather for an international conference. Lionel and Lex clash over the illegal ivory trade. A radical anarchist intends to make a political statement - in blood. COMPLETE Oct26/02
1. CH 1

TITLE: "Trophy"  
  
BACKGROUND: As late fall approaches, the stakes for the Smallville gang and secretive industrialist Bruce Wayne are higher than ever. Smallville High's civics class travels to Toronto for a mock UN student assembly, which coincides with an international relief conference in the city. The tentacles of Luthor Corp. find themselves attached to the bloody ivory trade in Africa, pitting father against son once more. And a splinter group from the anti-globalization movement threatens to hijack the global meeting -- and carve their political statement in blood. Another in the 'Bruce fics' series.  
  
[Democratic Republic of Congo, grasslands]  
  
The global ivory trade was banned throughout the world in 1989 after decades of excessive slaughter threatened to make elephants an extinct species. Artur van Kleet smiled.  
  
He had just downed an African elephant. The baby calf whined as he tried to wake up his dead mother.  
  
With the assassination of President Kabila and his son Joseph's struggles to bring order to the Congo - a land still torn to shreds by famine, war, disease and poverty, poachers in this region had become bolder. There were literally billions - BILLIONS - to be made in ivory. From the tacky streetside markets in Bangkok to the supposedly more reputable importers in the West, ivory was a prized commodity.  
  
Artur, a former South African policeman during the apartheid regime, found the ivory trade to be extremely alluring. The Congolese soldier, who lay dead beside the dying elephant, had stumbled upon the poachers by accident.  
  
His last mistake.  
  
"Bury the body," Artur ordered, "but not too deep. Let the hyenas find him." The elephant groaned one last time, then died. Another poacher, with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, started up his buzzsaw. He quickly sliced off the two tusks. Other poachers hauled them onto a jeep - with half a dozen more tusks.  
  
The baby calf rubbed his trunk against the corpse of his mother, then cried. Loudly. The racket was disturbing. Artur shouldered his rifle, aimed and fired. One last cry and the calf joined his mother and the  
  
Congolese soldier with the rest of the carrion.  
  
Refuse for the buzzards and scavengers.  
  
A cellphone rang. "Yes. I have spoken with my contacts in Kinshasa. When the political situation and violence have subsided, the Congo government will welcome your textiles plant."  
  
The caller asked another question. "Yes, all I ask is that you provide a cargo ship with a flag of convenience -- Norwegian perhaps, maybe Nigerian -- something that won't raise questions. Enroute to the Far East, that is correct."  
  
One last question. Artur laughed. "How do I make my living? You know our agreement: don't ask, don't tell. Thank you for your business ... Mr. Luthor."  
  
He turned to his men. "We must be across the border by sundown. There's still a civil war brewing here." The jeep raced away.  
  
The buzzards began to gorge on their new feast.  
  
[Highway 401, 20km from Metro Toronto, Ontario, Canada]  
  
Chloe skimmed yesterday's Daily Planet: 'Int'l relief conference: Debt relief, famine top the agenda.'  
  
"I wonder if the G-8 will be eager to loosen their tight-fisted monetary policies this time around," she mumbled.  
  
Clark looked out the bus window. Along the lakeshore, he could see the silhouette of the Toronto skyline. Canada's New York.  
  
"You think we'll be able to catch a Raptors game while we're there?" Pete wondered.  
  
"I don't know," Lana replied, "our class has a full slate of events: the student UN assembly, meet-and-greet with conference delegates, solidarity parade on Yonge Street ..."  
  
Clark thought of the friends he had left behind south of the 49th parallel. Lex was rallying his allies in Congress to put a moratorium on the small- arms trade, despite Luthor the Elder's reservations. Of course, Luthor Corp. was well-known as a war-maker. Bruce was sealing a multimedia deal with some trans-Atlantic consortium. Lex and Bruce has expressed interest in this international relief conference, but the demands of international business had delayed their arrival.  
  
You have now entered the City of Toronto, the sign declared.  
  
"I wonder if there will be the kinds of protests we saw in Seattle and Quebec City recently," Chloe stated.  
  
Pete looked concerned. "Protests? I wasn't exactly counting on tear gas and rubber bullets when I got my permission slip signed."  
  
I hope we don't run into trouble, Clark muttered to himself. I can't afford to use my powers here -- not with the world's media focused on the conference. 


	2. CH 2

[Toronto Hilton, 6PM]  
  
Chloe opened the door to Clark and Pete's room, nearly stumbling on a pair of sneakers. Clothes, luggage, a half-eaten bag of potato chips and some spare change littered the floor.  
  
"We've only been here for half an hour, and you managed to turn your suite into frat-boy paradise!" Chloe declared, as she eyed something black on the floor. "Uhh, somebody's missing a sock?"  
  
Pete grabbed it. "Ever hear of knocking? Anyway, we've been stuck on our butts in that bus for like, 12 hours. We're just beat!"  
  
Clark yawned. "Yeah, no kidding. Just our luck to arrive at rush hour, too."  
  
Lana knocked. "You guys decent in here?"  
  
"The guys are," Chloe laughed, "but their room isn't!"  
  
Lana gasped at the mess. "Pete, Clark, c'mon, hurry up! The conference doesn't start until tomorrow, so that means ..."  
  
"... we're taking Toronto by storm!" Chloe declared. "There's the Art Gallery of Ontario, the Hockey Hall of Fame ..."  
  
Clark raised an eyebrow. "Hockey Hall of Fame? We've got to go there. My dad was a big Blackhawks fan! Maybe I can pick him up a souvenir."  
  
"I think we should see a movie," Pete suggested, "there's supposed to be some big Paramount theatre a few blocks from here. And ... it's close to the entertainment district ..."  
  
"A movie sounds like a good idea," Lana stated. She scanned the listings in the Toronto Star. "If we leave now, we can catch 'Execution of Justice' in half an hour."  
  
Clark grasped his spare change and picked up a dollar coin. "Why do they call this thing a loonie?"  
  
Lana pointed at the etching. "Because that's a loon! You know, the bird?"  
  
Pete sifted through his pile of clothes for his wallet. "We can discuss foreign exchange rates on the way, if you catch my drift." He hustled Clark, Chloe and Lana out of the room.  
  
"But ... can we stop by the Queen's Park provincial building first, it's just up University Ave?" Chloe pleaded, to no avail. They raced down Queen Street West to the multiplex.  
  
Clark glanced at the headline at the Toronto Star newsstand. 'PM, G-8 to declare war on the illegal diamond and ivory trade' This conference sounds like it's going to be productive, he thought. Maybe we have nothing to fear from the protesters: a tossed salad of environmentalists, socialists, anti- poverty activists, the anti-globalization movement and the usual collection of anarchists.  
  
On the street corner, a pair of helmeted Metro Toronto motorcycle cops observed the Smallville students carefully. Quebec City demonstrated that there's no such thing as too much vigilance.  
  
[The Docks nightclub, 10:45 PM]  
  
Liesl.  
  
She hated her name. Her mother had named her after the daughter of Captain von Trapp. Yeah, THAT one in 'The Sound of Music'. She was her family's princess, the first born. Why shouldn't she be named after the ideal von Trapp daughter?  
  
It was alternative night at the club. A few shots of vodka and she was ready to dance the night away.  
  
Her father Wolfgang was a senior executive with DaimlerChrysler. She was sent to the best schools. But, like her namesake in the movie, she had a rebellious streak. She smoked with the senior boys. She  
  
spent a weekend with her girlfriends in Berlin when she was 17.  
  
"I have given you all that you need to succeed!" her father had argued, as he drove her back to Stuttgart. "Why must you do these ridiculous stunts!"  
  
Liesl laughed. 'I was 17 going on 18, bored to tears with my life ...' When she went off to study arts at the University of Mannheim a few years later, her parents were ecstatic. Finally, they thought, she has some direction.  
  
She walked into the student lounge one day. The local anarchist league was making a presentation. Raving about the evils of globalization, a corrupted democracy that enriches the elite - at the expense of the poor. She had rolled her eyes, but something in their literature captured her interest. This particular group wasn't  
  
simply going to meekly wave placards at the U.S. embassy.  
  
This anarchist group wanted to act. Within weeks, she had marched with them on a May Day parade. A few of the more radical in their group hurled bricks into a McDonalds and set fire to a Mercedez-Benz. Silly stunts, she had thought. Not so silly when the German riot police pursued them with water cannons and tear gas.  
  
One of their group turned out to be asthmatic. He had forgotten his medication and choked on his own vomit. Their group had their martyr, a student who voiced his opposition to the global culture of  
  
greed. Victimized by a state in bed with the multinationals, the IMF and the World Bank.  
  
She abandoned her studies, never to return to her cosy, upper-class life in Stuttgart. She went to Seattle ... and saw how their rag-tag alliance of protesters forced the G-8 to at least acknowledge their concerns. In Quebec City, the police erected a metal fence. Protesters hurled teddy bears to pacify the security forces. If  
  
there was any goodwill, it evaporated in mists of tear gas - as protested dipped handkerchiefs in vinegar as makeshift gas masks.  
  
The global elites tried to co-opt their protests by sponsoring parallel summits for `legitimate` protesters. That meant media darlings like Amnesty International, Doctors without Borders, or Greenpeace.  
  
Liesl would have none of their empty promises. She went underground with the radicals. They plotted corporate sabotage. Computer viruses to infect the networks of the multinationals. Hijacked press  
  
conferences: unfurling anarchist banners at plant openings. The mainstream media laughed at their juvenile games.  
  
After the accidental U.S. bombing of a wedding party in Afghanistan, their group - now loosely known as Fifth Column - targeted the aerospace industry. They were successful, blowing up a prototype of a jetfighter on the tarmac of a German airfield. Its inventor was a firm associated with the multinational Luthor Corp., led by the American capitalist Lionel Luthor.  
  
A man who was known to have blood on his hands, thanks to his secretive involvement in CIA-led operations in Latin America and the Far East. Luthor was not amused, and convinced the German government to label Fifth Column as a terrorist group.  
  
Anarchist radicals from France, Spain, England, Sweden swarmed into their ranks. Luthor had done more to inflame their cause than any publicity stunt they could do.  
  
Liesl bobbed her head to the throbbing pulse of the music. I have nothing against Canada, she mused. But they have sided with the G-8 against us. Against those people who have no voice. In Africa, Asia ... even here among the homeless. This relief conference is nothing more than a photo op for the leaders: Look at how responsible we are! We`ll think about forgiving the debts of those poor Africans, Latin Americans and Asians. Our voters will love us!  
  
Bastards. All of them.  
  
This city, with skyscraper monuments to its corporate masters, will set an example. The Western world will soon know how wrong it is to adopt globalization as its religion.  
  
Thousands of dignitaries, delegates and observers were to attend the conference tomorrow at the Metro Convention Centre.  
  
Liesl smiled. The penalty for blind faith in the `wisdom` of the G-8 elites -- is death.  
  
Death alone 


	3. CH 3

[Capitol Hill, Washington, D.C., the evening before the conference]  
  
"I'm sorry there will be no more questions for today," the Luthor Corp. PR officer stated, waving away the members of the Washington press corp. Lionel Luthor and Lex ducked into the waiting Lincoln Continental.  
  
"Haven't I told you that opening your mouth to the press only forces you to commit to actions you may not want to take," Lionel criticized.  
  
"All I said was that Luthor Corp. intends to be a responsible military manufacturer, that's all," Lex repeated.  
  
Lionel leaned closer. "Don't you see what that means? The press is now questioning our investment in technology firms that produce weapons for so- called 'rogue' states."  
  
Lex frowned. "But you've known all along that some of our partners have ties to less-than-credible arms dealers. The only reason you've ordered an audit of those investments is because of the corporate ethics regulations. I don't see why you can't just cut those more questionable ties. Wouldn't that one action put us in a better light."  
  
Lionel glanced outside the window. The Vietnam Memorial. He was knee-deep in that painful adventure as the covert supplier of the CIA and Special Forces - operating across the Vietnamese border in Laos and Cambodia. Many of his arms trade connections had developed during the tail end of the Cold War. He had prospered from engineered coups, assassinations and 'wars of independence': locally planned, American-funded. If Luthor Corp. were to systematically weed out those connections, those threads could lead all the way to the White House.  
  
Even in this current administration. Lionel Luthor knew that he could never win in a geopolitical pissing match with the President of the United States.  
  
No, it's better to let sleeping dogs lie. What the public doesn't - can't - know . won't hurt them.  
  
"I've instructed our allies on the Ways and Means Committee to proceed with their investigation of 'approved' Luthor audits. Should our foes in Congress insist on full disclosure, our friends will invoke the usual platitudes ."  
  
Lex shook his head. "In the interests of national security, we cannot divulge such information, etcetera, etcetera ."  
  
Lionel smiled. I have trained him well. "I'll be in town for the rest of this week. To keep an eye on things. I'll be staying at our townhouse in Georgetown. Shall I have the help expect us for dinner?"  
  
"Dulles International, driver," Lex commented. "I'll be taking the jet to Toronto. Putting a human face to our corporate support for Third World debt relief."  
  
"Ah, yes, your idea," Lionel remarked, "at a time of public mistrust of corporate mismanagement, a calculated display of our 'care and concern' for our poorer brothers and sisters."  
  
"I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do," Lex snapped, "and surely you don't want Bruce Wayne to upstage you again in the eyes of the adoring public."  
  
Lionel laughed as the car pulled up to the airport. "I'm sure you want to catch up with your Gotham friend. Tell that son-of-a-bitch that I'll be moving to block his multimedia project. I won't have Gotham Times dot.com clones polluting the Internet with his bleeding-heart liberalism."  
  
"I'll see you back in Metropolis," Lex slammed the door. On the Washington Post, the conference already grabbed the headlines: 'U2's BONO TO G-8: 'GIVE DIGNITY BACK TO THE POOR''  
  
Interesting, Lex thought. Bono, Bruce Wayne and big business. Quite an unusual line-up. He ascended the Luthor Corp. jet.  
  
"Destination, sir?" the pilot inquired. "Metropolis? New York?"  
  
"To Toronto." Lex nestled in the Corinthian leather seat. "A Luthor is about to invade Canada."  
  
[Scarborough motel, east-end of Toronto - Conference Day One, morning]  
  
Liesl and her comrades-in-arms prepared for the solidarity march. I love the free press, she grinned.  
  
All the local papers outlined the approximate route of the parade. Across Bloor St., south on Yonge, west on Queen, then north to University Ave.  
  
The final destination would be the grounds in front of Queen's Park, the provincial capital buildings. The police had already erected barriers in front of the main gates. This was expected, since the current Ontario government was viewed as right-of-centre, pro-business . and definitely anti-protester.  
  
Some of the more moderate protesters were already instructing their members to practice civil disobedience. Without violence.  
  
That was not what the Fifth Column planned. Gas masks, bags of bandannas (to conceal faces and serve as emergency gas masks), placards, and half a dozen heavy duffel bags lay strewn across the motel room.  
  
Liesl was not the leader, but her experiences in Seattle and Quebec City made her a veteran of these protests. Her status in the Fifth Column endeared her to the local anarchists who were prepared to take the next step from passive resistance to active revolution.  
  
"So the rally at Queen's Park is our final stop?" one anarchist - likely a junior recruit from university - asked as he collected the gas masks.  
  
"That's where our pacifist friends are going," Liesl stated. "On University Ave., north of Queen, is the U.S. consulate. Some of us are protesting there."  
  
The new recruit smiled. Finally, he thought, we're going to expose the evils of corporate-driven American imperialism. He was expecting to graffiti a Gap store along the way to protest their alleged sweatshop business model. Anyway, he didn't want to go to his Psych 101 class today.  
  
Liesl glanced at the duffel bags. The 'battle bags', as some of the more senior anarchists had labelled them.  
  
They held the tools of protest. Bricks, chains, rocks, pipes and baseball bats. What speeches and rallies failed to do, these tools would accomplish.  
  
Tomorrow we storm the Bastille, she thought.  
  
[Metro Convention Centre, South Building - Convention Day One, 9:10 a.m.]  
  
Delegates from over 100 countries mingled in the lower foyer. Africans discussing the internal strife in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The Rwandan were backing the rebel militias. Europeans discussing the pros and cons of debt relief - and how to tie debt forgiveness with human rights policies.  
  
The Canadian PM, as chair of the conference, had strived to consolidate pro- debt relief support in the European parliaments. With Uncle Sam poised to take on the Baghdad regime, he could not expect much assistance from Capitol Hill.  
  
The public address system called the meeting to order. "Welcome to the International Conference on Third World Debt Relief. We will begin with the opening statements shortly."  
  
Bruce Wayne, CEO of international firm Wayne Corp., was reluctant to accept the prime minister's invitation last month to make the opening address. "The left respects your compassion and corporate generosity," the PM had stressed over dinner at the Canadian consulate in Gotham City. "The right praises your responsible citizenship and reasoned patriotism. You can be the responsible voice of Wall Street at a time when public confidence in their civic leaders is declining."  
  
Bruce stepped up to the podium. A slight screech of microphone feedback.  
  
"Mr. Prime Minister, G-8 leaders, delegates, members of the press, and, yes, the protesters - some of whom I consider brothers-in-arms - welcome to this most important conference. We are here not to discuss rising oil prices, the slow recovery of the telecommunications sector, or the accounting mishaps of recent months." He paused.  
  
"We're here to share our successes - our wealth - with those who have been denied even the most basic rights: clean water, freedom of speech, the freedom to realize the highest of goals. Ladies and gentlemen, we're here to give back dignity to peoples around the world, regardless of creed or colour."  
  
Bono applauded loudly, as the rest of the delegates followed his lead. Bruce waited for the impromptu applause to subside, then continued. He outlined why world leaders must hear the voices of those who cannot speak for themselves. The impoverished in Latin America, Africa - and around the world - needed to regain their self-respect.  
  
The press conference began with the usual questions about how to reconcile corporate greed with the notion of Third World debt forgiveness.  
  
Someone from the BBC asked Bruce about his views.  
  
"Dignity is not the reserve of the rich and famous," Bruce replied. "Each and every one of us has the right to self-respect."  
  
Lex fiddled with the security pass looped around his neck. "Observer", the pass stated. A by-stander.  
  
While Bruce stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Bono on debt relief. Every major media outlet in the world was here.  
  
I've got to hand it to him, Lex noted, Bruce is a fine performer. But he was no mere performer.  
  
Wayne Corp. donated billions to UNICEF, the anti-landmine movement and several international relief funds. Bruce always had a soft spot for children. Especially victims of war and violence.  
  
As the delegates broke out into several seminar sessions, Lex navigated the hordes of cameras and microphones to greet his friend/rival.  
  
Bruce beamed. "Lex! Good of you to arrive. I'll be attending a breakfast meet-and-greet with the G-8 finance ministers. You could join us."  
  
Lex was about to reply when a delegate from Nicaragua shouted at Lex and gestured violently.  
  
"You vulture!" the delegate yelled. "Go home, Yankee imperialist! You're a Luthor, are you not? Your hands are bloody. Your father ploughed millions into the dirty little Contra war with the Sandinistas. My own brother disappeared without a trace just because his classmate was a Sandinista! Your family's assistance to the CIA ... makes you guilty of mass murder. Our people don't want your blood money. Go home!"  
  
"Perhaps you should exit from the rear," Bruce recommended, as security personnel arrived to douse the brewing tensions. He tried to pacify an increasingly agitated number of Third World delegates who were offended by Luthor's presence.  
  
Lex glared as cameras relayed this unexpected confrontation to their global audience. My father certainly won't like this, he muttered.  
  
"Out of my way!" Lex barked at the reporters. A gauntlet of police officers escorted Lex to a waiting sedan. The conference had barely begun, Lex complained, and I've already caused a scene. The peace and civility of Toronto provided no refuge from Lionel Luthor's shadowy Cold War sins. "To the Royal York Hotel," he snapped to the driver.  
  
Lex frowned. The Planet will have a field day with this one. 


	4. CH 4

[360 Restaurant, CN Tower, 11:30 a.m. - Conference Day One]  
  
Normally, Lex preferred to eat a light lunch. Afternoons tended to be busy -- filled with meetings, conferences and such. While he did have a full schedule (this was a WORKING lunch), he marvelled at the engineering feat that was the CN Tower, the tallest free-standing structure in the world.  
  
Only North Americans would have the balls to build something so bold, Lex thought. He finished off his sliced prosciutto and noticed that the waiter was bringing his main course.  
  
"Lemon herb-crusted salmon with whipped horseradish, dilled potatoes, and buttered snap peas," the waiter beamed.  
  
"Compliments of Macdonald and Associates," Douglas Macdonald, Certified Accountant, remarked. "I've requisitioned the records as we discussed. Our team noted any ... discrepancies. I'm curious, Lex ... why not ask your corporate accountants to do this research."  
  
Lex savoured the piece of dilled potato and swallowed. "Hmmph, excuse me. Why? Doug, you've known me a couple of years. You probably know the answer."  
  
"You figure they answer to Lionel and won't be upfront with you," Doug replied as he carved into his AAA Canadian striploin steak.  
  
"Precisely," Lex paused for a sip of water. "Guess which accounting firm handled those international accounts?"  
  
Doug gasped. "Bullshit! Not ..."  
  
"Arthur Andersen, Enron's book cookers!" Lex snickered.  
  
"I caught your little confrontation at the conference this morning," Doug muttered as he chewed on another morsel.  
  
Lex closed his eyes as he savoured the salmon. "My father caught the unfortunate spectacle on CNN. Now, Larry King's got the Nicaraguans crying foul at my mere presence here."  
  
He recalled this morning's heated phone call. "Yet again you screwed up, son," Lionel had declared, "I'm trying to solidify our power base on Capitol Hill. I can't do that if you're going to make a fool of yourself! You're there to put a good face on our empire before the rabble."  
  
"The only thing I regret is that you weren't here to be personally put in your place by the Nicaraguans. Wait a minute, who else are you pissing off this year. The South Africans? The Belgians?"  
  
"You have your job. Do it!" Lionel had snarled on the phone, "and keep an eye on Wayne, that goddamn prima donna."  
  
Lex hated it. The lack of respect. The brash ignorance his father flaunted. As if I had no part in the sustained success of Luthor Corp.  
  
Lex slammed his fork onto the table. Curious lunchers peered at his table.  
  
Doug leaned towards his old school chum from Upper Canada College. "Lionel's just like our old headmaster. Ya gotta know how to play him like a fiddle. Don't let him get under your skin."  
  
"I got kicked out of UCC precisely because I made a fool of our headmaster," Lex finished off his peas. "The stakes are higher this time."  
  
Doug pulled out his laptop and launched an Excel spreadsheet. "This might brighten your day."  
  
Lex examined the columns. "Records of our shipping transactions. Nothing unusual here. Manufactured goods from Asia to Africa. Raw materials from Africa to Asia."  
  
"Look closer," Doug nodded.  
  
One ship in particular stood out. Many of their ships would stop at the Luthor warehouses in Hong Kong. To resupply, refuel, replace crew. This one didn't. It seemed to take a circuitous route -- avoiding major shipping ports in Malaysia -- and finally docking in  
  
Thailand.  
  
"Our shipping division is based in Montreal," Lex noted, "I want ship manifests, inventories, the whole deal. Tomorrow."  
  
Doug signed the lunch bill. "Compliments of Macdonald and Associates," he grinned. "I'll tell the guys you said hello."  
  
"It's good to see you again, Doug," Lex shook his hand. As their elevator descended, Lex continued to grin.  
  
Time to go fishin' for some dirt, he thought.  
  
On dear old Dad ...  
  
[Intersection of Yonge and Queen, 11:45 a.m. -- Conference Day One]  
  
Clark walked with the rest of the student delegates. The Smallville gang marvelled at the party-like atmosphere of the 'Solidarity Parade'. Activists were banging drums, shaking tambourines and chanting slogans.  
  
"Dignity for the poor!"  
  
"The G-8's not so great!"  
  
"Don't label me. I'm only human."  
  
One protester seemed to be tired of the chanting, and simply yelled. "Hey Dubya, you suck!"  
  
Pete cringed, as a group of bandanna-covered socialists swore at a group of businessmen. "When did those guys join the parade?"  
  
"It's freedom of assembly, Pete," Chloe replied, "Everyone has a right to express their opinions -- no matter how far-fetched they may seem to us."  
  
Some protesters freely expressed their disgust with The Gap by hurling eggs and tomatoes at one of their stores. A khaki-clad sales associate cursed, as he wiped the disgusting mess off the display window.  
  
"Now, everyone, when we get to University Ave.," Mr. Shanahan, the civics teacher, instructed, "we all meet in the Hilton lobby for a head count!".  
  
"I was kinda hoping we could see the rally at Queen's Park," Chloe grumbled.  
  
Pete noticed that the 'socialists' now wore their bandannas around their faces. "I think Mr. Shanahan expects some trouble."  
  
They were at the corner of University and Queen now. They could see the U.S. Consulate now.  
  
Clark noticed a group of dark-clothed protesters -- all masked -- rush north to the barriers around the consulate.  
  
"Now!" Liesl barked. The anarchists pulled out their duffel bags and opened them. In moments, several of them hurled Molotov cocktails at  
  
the security barrier.  
  
Someone had announced "No violence!" but they were drowned out by the shattered glass of the flaming bottles.  
  
The police force around the consulate lobbed tear gas canisters into the rowdy crowd. There appeared to be several scuffles between the radical wing of protesters and the moderates. The police weren't sure which group belonged to what.  
  
"Everyone! The hotel! Now!" Mr. Shanahan yelled. Pete shielded Lana from the rolling fog of tear gas.  
  
Chloe pulled out a camera and began snapping photos of the confrontation. Clark yanked her arm.  
  
"Now's not the time to do the reporter thing!" Clark screamed.  
  
Chloe continued to snap photos. "I'm not about to let a minor street fight rob me of a good story. I'm sure one of the Toronto papers would love a first-person perspective of this!"  
  
Clark turned around. Lana was perched over Pete, who was coughing harshly. "He's having trouble breathing!" Lana mumbled under the scarf wrapped around her mouth.  
  
In the distance, Clark noticed an anarchist lunging with a steel pipe. Chloe, dazed amidst the thickening tear gas, did not notice as an officer swung with his baton to deflect the blow.  
  
The baton knocked her camera onto the ground. The force of the blow caused her to stumble.  
  
Another Molotov cocktail sailed through the confusion.  
  
"Chloe! Look out!" Clark screamed. He squinted.  
  
A 'SMASH!' Someone was engulfed in flames ...  
  
"Chloe?" Clark coughed.  
  
Chloe!!! 


	5. CH 5

[U.S. Consulate, intersection of Queen and University Ave., Toronto, 12.10 p.m. - Conference Day One]  
  
Clark saw that one of the protesters had been engulfed in flames. The rolling fog of tear gas swept across the entire avenue. Some protesters assisted some of their friends - pulling out Visine or water bottles to treat those with burning eyes. Others with vinegar-dipped makeshift scarf/gas masks began chanting "Shame! Shame! Shame!"  
  
Chaos consumed the street. Chloe was still dazed. Paramedics were escorting Pete and Lana to the safety of the Toronto Hilton lobby. Mr. Shanahan herded the rest of the civics class behind a line of motorcycle cops. In moments, Clark thought, that protester will burn to death. Smoke from the Molotov bombardment and the tear gas had enveloped the entire intersection. He covered his face and exhaled. The gush of cold air smothered most of the flames, as the bewildered protester howled in pain. Several plainclothed officers immediately smothered the lingering flames  
  
A legion of fully-armed riot police - the elite of Metro's Finest - marched west along Queen Street. They had waited a few blocks west ... in the event some of the protesters got unruly. They were expecting trouble on the lawn of the legislative buildings at Queen's Park.  
  
Trouble had arrived.  
  
Some of the anarchists had confronted the more moderate protesters, who had pleaded with them to stop the violence.  
  
One of the bandanna-covered protesters turned to Liesl. "The cops are here."  
  
"You know what to do," Liesl ordered, as she hurled a brick into the window of the U.S. Consulate. "We disperse. Do not proceed to Queen's Park. We have made the statement we wanted now. Regroup at the meeting area."  
  
The anarchists themselves were not a cohesive group. The university wannabes continued to throw rocks and bricks at the marching line of riot police. Some officers drummed on their shields with their batons.  
  
Trying to provoke us into a fruitless battle, she thought. Liesl's cohort of hardline Fifth Column radicals knew this was the moment to withdraw.  
  
A Marine in ceremonial uniform peered out the shattered window.  
  
"What the hell's going on?" the consul-general demanded.  
  
"Some of the radicals broke away from the protest march and attacked the consulate, sir," the Marine replied. "The perimeter is secure. Our people videotaped the whole thing."  
  
"Good," the consul-general nodded. He had received an intelligence report from Interpol only last night. German police had raided an Internet café in Munich. It turned out to be a front for an underground anarchist group. Interpol had traced hacker attacks to them, but also found email records. Something was going to happen in Toronto.  
  
What that was . well, that was anybody's guess.  
  
"Fall back," Liesl ordered. Her comrades immediately dropped their weapons and bags. Some sprinted towards a mob of protesters, hoping to blend in with them. Bad move, since the moderates immediately wrestled them to the ground. Curses and shouts in the air. A pair of arrests for Metro's cops.  
  
Others tried to flee into the Osgoode subway station, where a dozen plainclothed officers arrested them.  
  
Liesl would not make such novice mistakes. Amidst the confusion, she unzipped her jumpsuit and tossed her bandanna in the garbage. Now she looked like a typical college student: khakis and rugby-striped shirt. She casually walked north to Dundas Street. - past another legion of mounted police officers.  
  
As they galloped south to trap the remaining radicals at Queen and University, Liesl calmly walked away.  
  
Enter phase two, she smiled. No riot police on earth could disrupt our course.  
  
At the corner of Dundas and University, a tourist on the corner had taped the chaos on his camcorder .  
  
[Lobby of the Toronto Hilton, south of Queen and University, 12.30 p.m. - Conference Day One]  
  
Clark managed to pull Chloe off the street - moments before the relentless line of riot police corralled the radicals between Dundas and Queen streets. In the distance, he could hear the 'clop clop' of two dozen mounted police. Yells of protest. Sirens.  
  
The hotel lobby had become an impromptu triage centre. Protesters and students received treatment for tear gas exposure, cuts and bruises. One protester was arrested as soon as the paramedic applied a bandage.  
  
The protester cursed, as he looked at the terrified civics class from Kansas. "Don't sit on your hands, people! This world does not belong to the multinationals, the IMF or the World Bank. It is time to rise up and oppose!"  
  
Lana comforted Pete as he breathed into an oxygen mask. "It's all better, Pete. It's over." Pete took one last breath from the mask and coughed.  
  
"My dad's gonna freak out when he sees this on the six o'clock news."  
  
A reporter had tried to interview some of the students, but Mr. Shanahan swiped his notebook. "They're minors, dammit. All questions go through me!" he snapped.  
  
His mood didn't change when Chloe and Clark meekly sat with the rest of the student body. "Chloe Sullivan," Mr, Shanahan pointed just in front of him," Here. Now!"  
  
"When I told the class to get out, that means everyone!" he declared, ".not 'everyone, except Chloe'. Not only did you risk your safety, but the safety of your classmates who tried to help you!"  
  
"I was doing my job as a reporter to bear witness to the day's events," Chloe insisted.  
  
Mr. Shanahan wiped his face. All students were accounted for, thank God. "I want everyone to go to their rooms. Now. I will decide if it's still safe to go to today's events. The next time I tell students to meet somewhere, I expect you to do so." He glared at Chloe. "Even if you're the editor of the Smallville Torch." He left to give a statement to the Metro Police.  
  
Clark noticed an imposing figure spin through the revolving door. Bruce Wayne!  
  
"Clark, my god," Bruce looked at the organized chaos in the lobby. "I was at the Royal York with the finance ministers when I caught the live feed from CBC. Is everyone okay?"  
  
"We're all okay," Clark nodded, "although Chloe let her journalistic instincts get the better of her. I'd say she's got a detention coming up."  
  
"It was all worth it," Chloe beamed, "the Toronto Star and Globe and Mail want to see my photos."  
  
"I'd be careful about your gut instincts," Bruce chided, "they can do more harm than good - if you don't think things through first."  
  
A late-model sedan screeched in the main driveway. Lex bounded up the curb and into the hotel. "Clark, are you alright?"  
  
"We're okay . considering ." Clark looked outside. Hordes of police officers had sealed off the intersection near the U.S. Consulate. This must be the safest corner of Toronto, he thought.  
  
For now .  
  
"Bruce," Lex added, "I'm recommending to the mayor that he increase security - especially around the convention site and surrounding hotels. After this, who knows what else those terrorists may do."  
  
"I'm not in favour of the armed camp mentality," Bruce replied, then looked at the trembling faces of Clark's classmates, "but I don't want the conference to be disrupted by senseless violence, either."  
  
Bruce noticed that Lex was complaining to a police sergeant. "It should never have come to this point! I say you should have been more forceful with those protesters. Who the hell do they think they are! We've got kids here visiting from Kansas ."  
  
Security policy would entail the following: Public access on Front Street, outside the convention centre. Protesters would have their voice, limited as it was. Restricted access anywhere near the conference. Rigorous ID checks, searches and sniffer dogs. With regret, the Prime Minister approved a no-fly zone policy over the downtown core. Two CF-18 fighter jets roared overhead within the hour.  
  
Bruce sighed as a motorcycle convoy escorted him back to the conference. So much for freedom of assembly.  
  
[Bangkok, Thailand]  
  
Juan, a quality assurance inspector with Luthor Corp. Asia, wanted to pick up some souvenirs before he returned to his branch plant in Osaka, Japan. He spotted a street vendor with a display of trinkets.  
  
A gleaming white pendant caught his eye. My wife would love that, he thought.  
  
"Very good choice," the vendor agreed in broken English, "It make good gift."  
  
"What is it made of?" he asked. "This ." he pointed at the pendant, ". what is it made of?"  
  
"Ivory. The best kind," the vendor grinned. "Good quality. It make good gift."  
  
Juan shook his head in disgust. I thought the ivory trade was banned. He was about to move on, when he glimpsed at a crate in the backroom. Han Shipping, HK. The logo was unmistakable. The Africa to Asia route was common knowledge. Hong Kong was the midway point. Luthor warehouses stocked with goods from across Asia, the Mediterranean. Many manufactured goods would go to South Africa and all major ports north.  
  
He called over a rickshaw and was pulled out of the marketplace. He pressed the speed dial on his cell. "Yes, get me the operations manager, Luthor Corp, Metropolis."  
  
  
  
"Yeah, you heard me," Juan yelled over the noisy chaos of downtown Bangkok, "Ivory. The boss'll need to hear about this, for sure."  
  
Juan frowned as he approached his hotel.  
  
Lionel, what the hell did you do this time? 


	6. CH 6

[Scotia Plaza, lower concourse, Yonge and King Sts., 1:10PM]  
  
Lex and a few associates - with matching Hazelnut medium coffees, low fat milk only -- from Luthor Corp CANADA, scanned the electronic stock boards.  
  
"There!" one of his associates noted, "LCP."  
  
Lex studied the share prices carefully. "We've dropped a few dollars. My father's accounting missteps of late are affecting our NASDAQ numbers." He read the front page of the Globe and Mail.  
  
'QUESTIONS RAISED ABOUT LUTHOR SHIPPING TIES TO ILLEGAL TRADE'  
  
"I'm going to have to cut short my trip here in Toronto," Lex dialed his cell phone. "Hello? Doug? You'll have to courier those documents to Luthor Corp. Metropolis. I've got to put out some fires before this thing in the Globe gets too hot."  
  
"I'd suggest you stay put in Toronto," Doug stated - between sips of coffee, "V.P. Operations at Galleon HQ just got a frantic call from your people in Metropolis. Where are you now, Lex?"  
  
"Financial district. Scotia Plaza," Lex replied. Galleon: our shipping division? He studied the share prices again. Wayne Corp. - WYN.EP - rose a percentage point. The Europeans rejected Lionel's attempts to scuttle Wayne's transatlantic deal. Yet another round for Gotham's favourite son.  
  
I've got to get out of my father's shadow, Lex thought. "I've got to tie up some loose ends, Doug. I'm planning to catch the corporate jet to Metropolis this afternoon ... unless you can convince me my time is better spent here in T.O."  
  
"Your offices are in First Canadian Place, right?" Doug verified, "I can be there in 10 minutes. After what I've got ... I think you'll be spending the better part of a week in town!" He hung up and quickly packed away his laptop.  
  
"I can't make heads or tails of this underground path," Lex muttered. He glanced at his associates. "Upstairs. We can make it to First Canadian in five minutes out on the sidewalk."  
  
Lex held up his hand to stop a streetcar, as he crossed King Street - followed by half a dozen of his Toronto associates.  
  
He had to put out a smouldering fire.  
  
[Metro Convention Centre, 3:40 PM - Conference Day One]  
  
Two thousand student delegates from across North America attended the Youth Conference in the North Building. (The debt relief delegates were conducting seminars in the South Building.)  
  
The mayor of Toronto had just delivered his keynote address to the students. Many students napped against the wall, or quietly chatted with their friends.  
  
Chloe eagerly opened her envelope. "Yay! I'm on the European Commission team!" She waved the circular-starred blue flag of the European union.  
  
Pete opened his envelope. "Pete Ross, you've just won yourself citizenship with the Australasian bloc. How bout you, Lana?"  
  
Lana peeked into her envelope. "I'm with the central African delegates." She glanced at Clark.  
  
Clark clumsily ripped open his envelope. A little star-spangled banner fell out. "Looks like I'm still with Uncle Sam this time."  
  
The program director, an international law professor from U of T, spoke at the podium. "Student delegates. I understand you've been briefed on standard procedures in the U.N. General Assembly in your classes over the past few weeks. You have one hour to co-ordinate with other members of your assembly teams. Review the information packets on your respective countries or voting blocs." He opened a plain white envelope.  
  
"The topic for this meeting ..." the professor paused dramatically, "... is Crisis in the Congo. A messy dispute ... with the Rwandan genocide, Congo civil war, illegal diamond and ivory trade, post-Cold War politics. Let's see if you guys can propose a solution - and teach the politicians something, too."  
  
Chloe raced to the European team. "Okay, guys, I say we steer clear of any references to our colonial misdeeds in Africa ... and focus on the human rights issue."  
  
Pete strolled to the Australasian team. "G'day, mates," he joked.  
  
Clark still struggled to sort out his assembly documents. Lana grinned. "Two minutes, and already the Americans are paralyzed by the complexity of the issue. We'll see you at the assembly, Mr. Ambassador." She crossed the hall to meet with the African team.  
  
A stream of debt relief delegates passed by the hall. Bruce Wayne paused. "Clark?"  
  
"Uhh, hi, Bruce." Clark shuffled and reorganized his documents.  
  
"I hope your stuff's more interesting than my seminar," Bruce flipped open his file, "I've got 'Corporate Responsibility: Peace over Profiteering' I suspect the multinationals are going to gloss over the issue with empty platitudes. I'm hoping the 'soft power' movement will shake things up."  
  
"I'm on the 'American team'. Trying to sort out the crisis in Congo. Any suggestions?"  
  
"Cold War alliances won't play," Bruce explained, "the Europeans have little clout - what with their colonial past. The Congo's in a civil war. 20,000 Rwanda soldiers planned for demobilization. Key word there is 'planned'. Some of them are afraid - quite justifiably - that they'll be arrested for war crimes. That genocide. It's a no-man's land. Illegal trade ... diamonds to fund the Angolan war, elephant tusks to please merchants from Antwerp to Shanghai."  
  
He unrolled the papers under his shoulder. Globe and Mail. Daily Planet. Gotham Times. "Some extra reference material for you."  
  
"That's a lot to chew on," Clark replied.  
  
"I don't envy your position," Bruce smirked, "American foreign policy played one African country against another, depending on whether they took their orders from the Kremlin. Or if they differed from the State Department's agenda. Now, we're the only superpower. And the players keep changing, with revolutions, assassinations ... well, I've got to bloody a couple of greedy corporate noses. I'll be in touch." He sprinted to catch up with the delegates on the escalator.  
  
"Thanks, Bruce," Clark smiled. He sat with the American team to craft a made-in-the-U.S.A. solution to the Congo problem.  
  
He skimmed the headline of the Daily Planet. 'LUTHOR LINK TO IVORY TRADE? MOUNTIES INVESTIGATE MONTREAL SHIPPING HQ'  
  
Truth is stranger than fiction whenever the Luthors are involved, Clark grumbled.  
  
[Crowne Plaza Toronto Centre hotel, beside the Metro Convention Centre, 4:30 p.m. - Conference Day One]  
  
The hotel had hurriedly hired a dozen temporary cooks and chefs this week. About 1,000 invitees were to attend the Prime Minister's Dinner. The menu had to reflect the diverse tastes of delegates from over 100 countries. The new sous chef quickly donned her white cooking cap and apron. She had the opportunity to work as a chef -briefly - during university. Her overseas experience outclassed most of the applicants from the nearby George Brown College chef's program.  
  
She saw herself as more of a student of history than a purveyor of foodstuffs. She recalled one course - something about 20th century European politics - that explored the impact of the so-called "war to end all wars": World War I. In 1915, the Germans began a new phase in warmaking during the second battle of Ypres in France. They tossed cylinders of poison chlorine gas against the Allied forces. Until the West began using its own nerve gas weapons, the mere thought of such weapons struck fear throughout the frontline trenches. Those unlucky soldiers who faced such fearsome weapons suffered tremendously. Severe skin blisters, temporary or permanent blindness, painful damage to the lungs ... even immediate asphyxiation.  
  
An unseen and mindless enemy that struck without mercy. Without remorse. Chemical warfare put an end to the ridiculous 19th century notion of gallantry and honour among soldiers. How could one speak of common honour ... when faced with the barbarism of mustard gas?  
  
Such is the purity of humanity's evil against itself. The new chef thought of those poor soldiers - those mindless servants of European aristocracy - fighting essentially the last 19th century conflict for empire. Where counts, barons and dukes strutted about in their gaudily-dressed uniforms. Defending their pathetic fiefdoms like Napoleon a century before them.  
  
Now those lords have been replaced by the new order: bankers, corporate executives, lobbyists and subservient world leaders.  
  
The new chef's name was Liesl, a German student who had become disillusioned with the greed of Western, capitalist society. In the kitchens of the Crowne Plaza, she would have access to every platter served at the dinner.  
  
Every drink.  
  
Every spoon.  
  
Some of those soldiers in 1915 had died of asphyxiation - as their lungs burned inside them - before they even left their trenches. Without masks, they had no refuge then.  
  
Liesl prepared the delicate main course and covered it with a sterling silver dome.  
  
These world leaders and their Big Business comrades-in-arms, performing before the Western media with empty promises and lies. Cowards.  
  
They would have no refuge now. 


	7. CH 7

[Near the Rwandan-Congo border, before dusk]  
  
Artur van Kleet, former South African policeman and current poacher, lit a cigarette. It was becoming increasingly dangerous in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Until the fall, the Congo army had battled tens of thousands of soldiers from neighbouring countries - some backing the government, others trying to overthrow it. This chaos allowed Artur and his poachers to operate with relative impunity. Bribes to government officials, hush money, a percentage of the gross from ivory sales - or the occasional illegal diamond shipment.  
  
Those days were fading. The so-called peace deal in 1999 had called for the withdrawal of all foreign soldiers in exchange for the 'repatriation' of Rwandan soldiers in the Congo. Some of those soldiers weren't really soldiers at all. Some were little more than extremist thugs.  
  
Thugs with close to a million deaths on their hands. The international community demanded some degree of justice for the Rwandan genocide - now. With international debts mounting and the U.N. leaning towards peace- 'making', the Congo government wanted to put an end to this civil war.  
  
Artur had heard rumours of a U.N. Protection Force, based on the Rwandan border. They were to observe the orderly withdrawal of 20,000 Rwandan soldiers. Not to mention the thousands of Ugandan, Zimbabwean and Angolan trooped who had joined the fray. He scoffed. They were looking for the Interahamwe: the extremist militiamen who hacked Rwandan towns and villages into masses of mangled arms, limbs and heads.  
  
An importer in Antwerp wanted his order of ivory. Cash only. No paper trail. Perhaps I'll go out for one more hunt in the morning, Artur thought.  
  
"One hunt in the morning," he announced to the camp, "and we get the hell out of this godforsaken country. Find greener pastures. We don't want to run into the U.N.'s boys with the baby blue helmets!" The camp laughed. As long as the demand for ivory was there, they would be in Africa to provide the supply.  
  
And the U.N. be damned.  
  
About 100 kilometres away, half a dozen non-descript olive tents stood beside a road. This road connected Congo to Rwanda.  
  
Colonel Michaud, commander of the U.N. Protection Force, Congo (UN PROFOR), peered through his binoculars. The morning would bring another stream of refugees and soldiers. His combined Canadian-Dutch-Senegalese peacekeeping force ensured that the last foreign troops withdrew in an orderly fashion.  
  
That job still continued. A dozen light-blue bereted Dutch soldiers patrolled the highway, examining the refugees. Only last week they had captured a pair of Interahamwe militiamen trying to slip back into Rwanda.  
  
Today they had a new job. South African intelligence notified the U.N. about an alarming increase in poaching throughout central Africa. These poachers, the colonel had read, were well-armed, well-connected and would not hesitate to kill anyone who got in their way. Some poor chap, a Congolese soldier, had been found dead near the carcass of yet another elephant a few days ago.  
  
UN PROFOR had received an executive order from the Security Council about 10 minutes ago. "Lawless bands of poachers operate in the conflict zone, defying U.N. resolutions against the illegal trade in endangered species. Their refusal to cease their activities represents a clear and present danger to the peace agreement, signed in good faith three years ago and renewed this summer ..."  
  
This new operation had its own rules of engagement. Separate from the current withdrawal mission.  
  
The colonel's aide-de-camp saluted. "Your orders, sir?"  
  
"Assemble a crack company. The fellas with sharp eyes and steady hands," the colonel mumbled as he studied a map of the border region.  
  
"Sir?" the aide, a Dutch captain, had wondered.  
  
The colonel jabbed his finger on a map. "Reports of poaching activity an hour's drive from here. The Congo government has requested our help."  
  
A flurry of activity greeted the rising sun. Sleepy soldiers assembled their packs and slung their rifles on their shoulders. Within half an hour, a jeep and two armoured Coyote-class personnel carriers - ablaze with the black-on-white lettering of the U.N. - zoomed out of the camp.  
  
Another hunt was about to begin.  
  
[Metro Convention Centre, 4:45 p.m. - Conference Day One]  
  
The student U.N. assembly had already presented opening arguments. Chloe Sullivan, speaking on behalf of the European continental team, had the floor.  
  
"The European commission proposes that all aid is tied to the countries' human rights record," she continued, "The better the record, the higher percentage of the aid they receive."  
  
Lana and the students on the African team shook their heads. Lana stood up and looked at the professor, who played the role of the secretary-general. "Rebuttal!" she insisted. The professor nodded.  
  
"It's hypocritical for the Europeans, who - with all due respect - probably have good intentions ... to impose such limitations," Lana declared, "while at the same time they do little to stem the demand for ivory and diamonds in their own nations. They should prevent their merchants from Amsterdam to Prague from buying those goods. These luxury items are funding the very wars they're trying to stop!"  
  
Chloe immediately stood up. "Rebuttal, secretary-general!"  
  
"You'll have your turn, soon enough," the professor noted, "since the American bloc has the floor now."  
  
Clark stood up. "We support the European position on aid tied to human rights, but we recommend a go-slow approach. Faster aid to those countries with cleaner human rights records. For the worst offenders, no aid, except food and medicine ..."  
  
Lana frowned. Uh-oh, Clark thought, I guess she's not in favour of my argument. He continued. "I propose two resolutions. The first one promises aid to those countries that match the criteria we've set out. The second one calls for U.N. observers to have free access to offending countries. Based on their reports, they can give the go-ahead for aid or recommend further actions."  
  
Lana jumped up. "Rebuttal. The American proposal not only implies that Africans are incapable of solving their own problems, it perpetuates the imperialistic behaviour that has brought our continent such misery over the past 150 years. I thought we discredited the 'white man's burden' concept of African politics. The Western world has to stamp out the illegal trade in Africa's resources. We formally reject the American and European proposals."  
  
Two votes for the Euro-American resolutions, one against. The American and European teams ran to the Australasian bloc, who still had to cast a vote.  
  
"Pete, you know that the U.S. is the only one who can enforce a solution in central Africa," Clark argued.  
  
Pete grinned. "Nice try, Uncle Sam. You forget that we know all about America's Cold War meddling in African affairs. You'll have to cut your arms sales before you get credibility with our side."  
  
"Precisely," Chloe interrupted, "which is why the Australasians will back the EC position. All help tied to each country's commitment to democracy, human rights ..."  
  
"Commitment to democracy, eh?" Pete replied, "Better tell that to your jewellers in Antwerp, or Geneva, or Prague ..." Pete consulted with his team, then glanced at the professor. "The Australasian bloc wants to hear the African solution first, before we vote."  
  
"Ms. Lang, the floor is yours," the professor stated.  
  
The room fell silent as Lana spoke. "We accept the principle that countries must demonstrate a commitment to the welfare of its peoples. But it's also unfair to expect us to have institutions and values that model our former colonial masters. We're trying to be independent, yet we aren't. We still depend on Western manufacturing, Western loans, Western diplomacy. It will take time and patience to solve the problems of war, famine, corruption and resource mismanagement. We can't do it alone. What we want is advice, not commands ..."  
  
Clark listened carefully as Lana systematically took apart the Europeans' position. Chloe tried to refute Lana's arguments, but she could not. Again and again, the theme of Europe's colonial pillaging of Africa's resources resurfaced. Even now, some European firms sought to exploit the wealth of the continent.  
  
Just like their forefathers.  
  
Chloe and the European team faced the truth that their resolution - while well-meaning - did not address the core problem: their inability to effectively stop the illegal diamond and ivory trade and the legal pillaging of minerals, forests and other resources by their companies. The market's demands continued unchallenged.  
  
The African team turned their attention to America. "We cannot accept further interference," Lana began, "We would like American assistance on creating sustainable democracies ... BUT we don't want them to play one country against another to suit some agenda in the State Department. The Cold War is over."  
  
Lana had so effectively destroyed the European position that the American team's argument had its foundation pulled from under them. Many of the Europeans sins - insufficient support for Third World development, illegal trade in resources and arms, post-Gorbachev diplomatic gamesmanship - were sins of the Western world, too.  
  
Chloe noticed Clark. He was admiring Lana's eloquence. Her passion. This was not the passive, nauseatingly perfect, Ms.-Popular-Lana she had seen last year.  
  
This Lana had teeth. Guts. And Clark's growing affection, it seemed.  
  
"We propose that a third-party - say, the Australians, or Asians - monitor the human rights records of African countries," Lana concluded, "We can have peacekeepers from South Africa or Kenya keep warring sides apart. The Europeans and Americans, by all means, have the right to give aid only to those countries that respect human rights and weed out corruption. At the same time, they are obligated to enact laws to prosecute those who buy or sell illegal goods from Africa. All that we ask is fairness."  
  
Pete stood up. Chloe buried her head. So much for our Brussels initiative, she grumbled. "The Australasians support this African solution. We are prepared to offer peacekeepers, development help ..." Pete stated.  
  
"The vote stands at two," the professor. "How will the Europeans vote?"  
  
"While we respect the Africans' arguments," Chloe announced, "we would like more safeguards on human rights. The Europeans abstain."  
  
Clark and the American team were still debating their final position. "And the U.S.?" the professor inquired.  
  
"With regret," Clark declared, "we cannot support this resolution." He heard grumbles among the students. "We would like more stringent monitoring and enforcement conditions. We also want stiffer penalties for those countries that flagrantly trample on democratic values. The Americans vote against this proposal."  
  
"The African solution has two votes," the professor began, "Let the record show that there is one abstention and one vote against. With two votes, the proposal passes." The assembly applauded.  
  
Lana returned to her friends. "Maybe we can't solve the problem in a day, but at least we can give those world leaders some food for thought," Lana beamed.  
  
Chloe pouted. "What's wrong, Sullivan," Pete smiled, "not happy with just a bronze medal?"  
  
"It's just an exercise, right?" Chloe replied, as she grinned towards Lana. "No hard feelings." Clark and Lana appeared to be in an intense discussion. About Lana's stellar performance. Later, the professor congratulated Lana for her 'eloquence'.  
  
"It's not the debate that's bugging you - is it?" Pete asked. Chloe chose not to reply.  
  
They already knew the answer.  
  
[Banquet hall, Crowne Plaza hotel, 5:20 p.m. - Conference Day One]  
  
Bruce Wayne adjusted his tie and sipped a glass of ice water. The Prime Minister and the rest of the G-8 leaders would be arriving in a few minutes.  
  
He made a few notes in his Palm Pilot, then retrieved an email on his cellphone:  
  
"Master Bruce: Gotham Times reports that GCPD have broken an alleged cell of radical anarchists at Gotham State. Suggestions of a Toronto connection. Be careful. Alfred."  
  
Bruce was seated with prominent members of the Toronto Board of Trade. Local directors of Greenpeace,and Amnesty International sat at the table beside them. He noticed that they frowned as another businessman took his seat.  
  
"Lex!" Bruce declared. "You missed the afternoon seminar."  
  
"I know," Lex replied, "'Corporate responsibility'. Let's just say I had hands-on experience in putting those words into action."  
  
"Really?" Bruce answered, seemingly oblivious to the hint. But he knew all too well. CBC Radio had just broadcast news of a sweeping RCMP investigation of Galleon Shipping's headquarters in the old port of Montreal.  
  
"A rather unpleasant experience," Lex continued, "My father would have hesitated to act until the Mounties slapped him silly with a subpoena. Fortunately, the shipping division falls under my responsibilities."  
  
"I'm almost afraid to ask what you did," Bruce smirked as he took another sip of water.  
  
"Let's just say Galleon's board of directors will be faxing out their resumes tomorrow," Lex fiddled with his dinner knife. "I fired every single one of them. No one - not even my dad's appointed lackeys - can place my family's reputation in jeopardy like that without consequences."  
  
"Interesting," Bruce observed. "Who's calling the shots now in Montreal?"  
  
"I've placed people there who'll go over Galleon's books studiously," Lex replied, "People who recognize the importance of corporate honesty."  
  
"People who are ... loyal ... to you," Bruce noted.  
  
"Well, yes," Lex grinned. "Napoleon once said that in the pack of every soldier lies the baton of a field marshal. I reward those who demonstrate excellence."  
  
"The Emperor also lost two-thirds of his army trying to invade Russia," Bruce stated, "I'd suggest you watch your back."  
  
The hall fell silent as the G-8 leaders took their places at the head table. As the host, the Prime Minister welcomed the leaders and invited guests.  
  
"More speeches," Lex grumbled, "I'd rather dive into the main course right now."  
  
Bruce noticed that a long line of servers rolled out trays covered in shiny, gilded dome covers. "You may not have to wait long, Lex."  
  
A chef wheeled out an elaborate centrepiece. A four-foot high ice sculpture: a dove representing peace. Surrounded by sumptuous main dishes.  
  
A burst of applause interrupted Bruce's thoughts. He glanced at the chef again.  
  
Why does she look familiar?  
  
"Lex," Bruce tapped his friend's shoulder. "That chef ..."  
  
"Bruce Wayne, ever the skirt-chaser!" Lex chuckled. "Sure, she's a looker - but aren't supermodels and starlets more to your liking?"  
  
"I'm serious," Bruce whispered. "Remember that summer. That international school in Switzerland?"  
  
"How could I forget?" Lex smiled. "You were 17, preparing for your college entrance exams. I was trying to get you to blow off history class so we could take the Eurail to Frankfurt and go clubbing."  
  
"We almost did, too," Bruce recalled. Alfred had sent him to l'Academie de Ste.-Anne, just outside of Geneva. The overseas experience would do him good, he had said.  
  
Bruce might have changed his mind had he known that Lex Luthor was also sent there. After yet another expulsion from a private school for behaviour that - allegedly - brought the school's reputation into disrepute.  
  
That was the summer they had met Liesl. The boys used to tease her about her name ... singing Sound of Music songs whenever she passed by. Rumour had it that she was the daughter of some big shot at DaimlerChrysler.  
  
"Smoking's bad for you," Bruce remarked as Liesl lit up a cigarette.  
  
With her untucked blouse and uniform kilt dangerously high, Liesl was the kind of girl Alfred would disapprove of. Not surprisingly, most of the guys at school liked her.  
  
"It's the image," Liesl stated, then blew a stream of smoke into the sky.  
  
"H-hi, Liesl," Lex waved sheepishly. He was a junior - one of many - who had a crush on the mysterious, bad girl from Stuttgart.  
  
"Hey, sexy Lexy," Liesl joked. "I'm bored. A bunch of us are going to Germany this afternoon. You guys wanna come along?"  
  
"Can't," Bruce stated. "I've got a 2,000 page essay due by Monday. Augustus Caesar."  
  
"Oh, come on," Lex prodded, "It's just the final draft you have left. We'll be back by Sunday. Plenty of time to give it a once-over."  
  
"Yeah, Bruce," Liesl kneeled beside him. "Frankfurt. Warehouse party. Yvonne will be there."  
  
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Yvonne's going?"  
  
Lex slapped him on the shoulder. "We'll take that as a yes."  
  
They slipped past the headmaster after fourth period, with knapsacks and Eurail passes in hand.  
  
It was well-planned. When they'd arrive in Frankfurt. Who's house they would stay at. Which friends would give them a ride.  
  
The only thing they had not planned for was Lionel Luthor's arrival at the Geneva train station.  
  
"Lex!!" he barked, scaring the bejeezus out of the students. "Liesl, your father will not be amused. I'm actually going to Germany to close a deal with him." He pointed at the exit. "We'll see your headmaster. Now!"  
  
"I'm not a child," Liesl replied. "You're not my father. I'm going to Frankfurt." The porter had called for final boarding. Liesl hopped aboard before Lionel could give another order.  
  
Lionel glared at Bruce. He was tempted to let Thomas Wayne's son go to Germany and make a fool of himself in front of the German tabloids. But, he was with Lex. It was time for fatherly discipline, not blood feuds.  
  
"I expected as much from my son ... but Bruce Wayne? God, you're poised to inherit one of America's most stories corporate empires!"  
  
Lionel dialed Wayne Manor, despite Bruce's protests. "Yes, Mr. Pennyworth. It seems your fellow thought clubbing in Germany was more important that his studies in Geneva. No doubt my son talked him into it."  
  
"Don't blame Lex," Bruce pleaded, "It's not his fault. Frankfurt was Liesl's idea!"  
  
Lex held back his friend. "Don't bother. In his eyes, I can do nothing right. Whatever you say, it'll be my fault."  
  
Lex Luthor was expelled from l'Academie de Ste.-Anne for "conduct unbecoming a student". Bruce and Liesl - with exemplary grades and powerful connections in the Swiss government - had their extra-curricular activities suspended for two weeks.  
  
At the Prime Minister's dinner, Lex toyed with his main course. "Oh, yeah," Lex mumbled. "I remember Liesl."  
  
"Alfred didn't speak to me for a week," Bruce shook his head. "I disappointed him that day."  
  
"Only one day?" Lex remarked. "I got you beat there. I disappoint my dad EVERY day."  
  
Bruce laughed. Lex couldn't help but join in the laughter - even if it was at his expense.  
  
Lex noticed that the chef-who-looks-like-Liesl seemed agitated. Like she didn't really want to be there.  
  
"Whatever happened to dear Liesl?" Lex asked between nibbles of roast lamb.  
  
"I heard something about her joining Greenpeace, or something," Bruce said, "fighting the good fight for mankind."  
  
"I heard she joined the German Red Brigade," Lex stated, "disrupting corporate press conferences. Chasing oil tankers, who knows?"  
  
Bruce glanced again at the chef. And the centrepiece. He could see vapours pouring out of the ice sculpture, which was now in the far right corner of the hall.  
  
Someone choked. Another delegate tried to administer the Heimlich manoeuvre, but he too collapsed.  
  
One of the servers grabbed her chest. She began to foam at the mouth.  
  
"Everyone, get the hell out. It's poison gas!" Bruce barked. A pair of Mounties moved to intercept him.  
  
Lex looked for the chef. She was already gone. "Listen to him!" Lex insisted, as he covered his face with a napkin. "Everyone out!"  
  
As more of the delegates began to choke and gasp, the Prime Minister signalled his security detail to herd the world leaders out of the emergency exits.  
  
"Seal this hall. Don't let anyone near this part of the building," Lex ordered one of the Mounties. He raced outside the hall, as the student delegates exited a convention room.  
  
"What happened?" Chloe asked. "Someone pulled the fire alarm?" "Lex!" Bruce yelled. "Get those kids the hell outta here!!"  
  
"Someone released some poison gas in the banquet hall," Lex explained. Chloe began to peer around the corner.  
  
"No time to play reporter," Lex hustled her away, "unless you'd like your lungs to burn from the inside out and suffocate to death."  
  
Outside on Front St., Clark studied the crowd of protesters behind the barricades. He spotted someone in a chef's apron across the street. She tossed it aside as she raced south.  
  
"There!" Bruce also spotted her. "Lex, I trust you'll keep the students out of the building." He paused in front of Chloe. "Don't even think of getting any ideas about following me!"  
  
"You're going after her, Bruce?" Lex wondered, but Bruce had already sprinted across the street, towards the harbour. "What is with Bruce and his hero complex?"  
  
Clark immediately chased after his Gotham friend. "Clark!" Pete called after him, "Leave this to the cops. Are you crazy!"  
  
A pair of Metro Police cruiser screeched around the curb. Chloe began to follow them when Mr. Shanahan, the civics teacher, stopped her. "Sorry, no exclusives for the Torch this time, Ms. Sullivan."  
  
Damn, she thought. Why does Clark get to be in the thick of the action?  
  
The police ordered everyone to leave Front St. vacant for the emergency vehicles. A line of helmeted riot police blocked all the entrances. The protesters and on-lookers quickly obliged, once rumours of 'poison gas' reached them.  
  
Lana comforted one of her classmates. Clark Kent either has this innate sense of duty, she thought. To help others.  
  
That - or a death wish ... 


	8. CH 8

[Metro Toronto Convention Centre - Conference Day One]  
  
Chloe looked across the street. The Hazardous Materials squad - in their bright yellow suits and masks - entered the Crowne Plaza hotel. For safety precautions, they evacuated the neighbouring convention centre.  
  
"Do you have any leads on who might want to disrupt the conference?" Lex asked one of the officers guarding the hotel entrance.  
  
"With an event of this size, anything's possible," the officer replied. "It's an on-going investigation. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the news conference in an hour."  
  
Perhaps that would be the best thing to do, Lex thought. I could provide the Mounties with what I know about Liesl, but that would invite too much attention from the voracious media. And certainly not now - with the whiff of ivory trading underneath Luthor Corp.'s noses.  
  
Lex approached Mr. Shanahan. "I've arranged a police escort for your Smallville class. The best thing to do would be to get out of the area. The terrorist might have some friends at large."  
  
Pete scrambled through the crowd. "We can't just leave Clark out there!"  
  
"Where -", Mr. Shanahan began, "... is ... Clark Kent?!" Lex nodded his head towards the harbour. "Alright, class. Mr. Luthor has been kind enough to arrange a police escort. I want everyone to head back to the Hilton now. I'll remain here to fetch Clark."  
  
As the class boarded a school bus - flanked by half a dozen motorcycle cops - Chloe glanced south towards Lake Ontario.  
  
"Looks like you and Clark are gonna be detention buddies when we get back to Kansas," Pete smirked.  
  
"If he doesn't get himself killed first!" Chloe grumbled.  
  
[Foot of Bay St., the harbour]  
  
Liesl ran. Sirens blared to the right and left of her. In moments, all the main roads would be blocked. In spite of her situation, she couldn't help but smile. The body count was never her concern. She had told the G-8 in her own way that no place - not their capitals, not their presidential mansions, not even well-guarded conferences - would provide refuge. Whatever punishment they received, they deserved.  
  
"Liesl!" Bruce barked, as Clark arrived behind him. Liesl spun around, holding a metal canister. "I have enough anthrax in this canister to wipe out several city blocks. Stay back, Bruce."  
  
"Why, Liesl?" Bruce pleaded, "Do you realize how many people you've hurt. Killed. Why? Look, why don't you put the canister down. We can talk this through. Your father, Wolfgang, hasn't heard from you in years ..."  
  
Liesl scowled. "Don't talk to me about my father. He, like you, is as much a part of the problem as the G-8's charlatans." A pair of police officers approached from the east.  
  
"Stay back, officers" Bruce insisted. "The canister has anthrax!"  
  
"You and Luthor. How could you side with their kind!" Liesl shouted, "You have the wealth. The influence. The power to change the world for the better. Instead, you spend it on promoting the capitalist agenda and furthering Western decadence ... at any cost! Or in your case, bubble- headed runway models. You've made your choice, Bruce. Go to hell. Better still, let me help you get there!"  
  
She flung the canister towards the Gotham industrialist. Clark leaped in front of Bruce, then smothered the canister.  
  
Bruce rushed to Clark's side. "Clark! Are you okay?" Clark looked at the canister. "She attacked us ... with Vidal Sasson hairspray!" Bruce examined the container. "Extra body hold and conditioner," he scowled, "Potent stuff."  
  
They looked westward. Liesl was heading for Spadina Avenue. On the dock, a boatowner prepared to take out his speedboats for the winter. He heard someone behind him yelling in German, or something. Liesl shoved him into the lake, hopped into one of the boats and sped out of the dock.  
  
Several police cruisers and a score of officers arrived at the foot of Spadina Ave. "Officers," Bruce began, "you'd better call in the Marine Unit."  
  
Clark fished out the bewildered owner from the water. "W-what's going on?" he coughed.  
  
"We're going to have to borrow one of your speedboats," Bruce declared. One of the officers tried to stop him, but Bruce was already starting the ignition.  
  
"You're not going to face that lunatic on your own!" Clark hopped into the passenger seat. A late fall fog had begun to descend over the harbour.  
  
Liesl cursed as she glanced behind him. Bruce - even now - remained the self-righteous boy scout. Ready to serve. Along the boardwalk, she noticed masses of police. Several patrol boats already disembarked. Stormtroopers of the state, she thought. Protecting the corporate gluttony of the West.  
  
"I can't see a damn thing in this fog!" Bruce growled as he turned on the floodlights. Clark focused his eyes and concentrated. Through the fog, he could see nothing but water. Liesl was rapidly increasing the gap between them.  
  
She grabbed an anchor and flung it behind her. "Clark, look out!" Bruce tried to duck, but the anchor's chain wrapped around his leg. The weight dragged Bruce overboard and into the blackness of Lake Ontario.  
  
"Bruce!" Clark yelled. No answer. The next few minutes were a blur of lights and sounds. He remembered gazing at the engine of Liesl's boat. Beams of heat penetrated the fog, slicing the motor off the boat. A few sparks, then flames. Liesl had difficulty steering. In the distance, Clark could see a concrete breakwater wall just above the choppy waves.  
  
"Get out of the boat!" Clark screamed. "There's a wall just up ahead!" He swerved the boat and stopped.  
  
Frantically, Liesl struggled with the steering. She thought she saw something on the horizon. Someone had yelled, "Jump!" She gasped as the wall appeared above the water. The wall was designed to literally break Lake Ontario's waves before they crashed onto the shoreline. The boat smashed into the wall, dissolving into shreds of wood, aluminum and flaming debris.  
  
Tonight, the wall would stop a speedboat. The lake, it seemed, would claim an anarchist.  
  
"Oh my god," Clark gasped. "No." A Metro P.D. patrol boat pulled up to his speedboat.  
  
"Are you alright, son?" the officer asked. "That was a damn crazy thing you pulled, going after that terrorist!"  
  
Clark remembered his Gotham friend. "Where's Bruce? Is he ...?" He can't be gone, he feared.  
  
"One of our boats picked him up a few metres back," the officer explained, "Good thing he freed himself from the anchor chain in time, or the lake would have gobbled him up for sure!"  
  
Clark sighed in relief. As a second boat arrived, Bruce - wrapped in a blanket - waved at him. "Are you going to be alright, Clark?" he asked, as the boat pulled beside them.  
  
Clark stared around him. It was dusk now. The skyline of Toronto - the SkyDome, the CN Tower, the imposing Royal York hotel - reflected between splashes of waves in Lake Ontario. He looked towards the break wall. Several police boats began their search for evidence.  
  
"Liesl was right about one thing", Bruce noted, "We have to live by the choices we make. She made hers, I'm sorry to say. Her father will be devastated. She was his only child." As the boats returned to the shore, Clark looked again at the break wall. What could drive someone to take such drastic actions, he wondered. Was it rage at the injustice of her society? Was it a feeling of helplessness - some need to right the wrongs of a cold and unkind world?  
  
"She had it all, you know," Bruce seemed attuned to Clark's mood, "A life of privilege. The best education that money can buy. A loving and supportive family."  
  
"But ... why?" Clark demanded. "Why would someone throw all that away? For what? To make some point to the world! I don't understand."  
  
Bruce stared at the soaring steel bank towers of the financial district. "Maybe she was bored. Bored of the routine of her life. She was typecast in the role of a dutiful daughter of a prominent executive. She needed to do something to make her life meaningful. With a purpose. Who knows - except Liesl."  
  
Clark tried to grasp what Bruce was saying, but the immediate events still stunned him. Nothing made sense. Not this night.  
  
Bruce's mind wandered. I'm sorry Wolfgang, he sighed to himself. I'm sorry I couldn't save your daughter.  
  
From herself.  
  
[50km from the Congo-Rwandan border, central Africa]  
  
One of Artur's hired hands dashed through the jungle undergrowth, flailing his arms in the air. "We've got to get out of here!"  
  
Artur lowered his rifle. Half a dozen elephants glanced at the commotion. "Be quiet, you fool!" he cursed. "Those tusks are worth thousands of dollars!"  
  
A rumble in the distance. Artur saw some rustling in the bushes.  
  
"Poaching is forbidden by U.N. international resolutions and illegal in this country," a voice boomed from a white armoured personnel carrier, "Drop your weapons. You are under arrest!"  
  
"Run!" Artur yelled. A pair of poachers leaped into the jungle, hoping to disappear in the foliage. A tap on their shoulders. Four Senegalese peacekeepers, with rifles pointed at them.  
  
Another poacher - with a tusk in hand - tried to scramble up a dirt path, but one of the personnel carriers pursued him. The gunner fired a warning shot over his head, convincing him to drop his weapon. A dozen blue-bereted soldiers immediately hauled him into the carrier.  
  
Artur ran through the jungle. He cursed. He had run out of jungle. The trees were breaking up. Patches of grassland became long stretches of plains.  
  
To the left and right, he noticed U.N. peacekeepers racing to cut off his escape. Soon, he was surrounded. A dozen peacekeepers blocked his path east. Behind him, an armoured carrier dislodged a dozen of soldiers. Another four aimed their rifles at him from the west. "We are UN PROFOR peacekeepers. Drop your weapon. Now!" the major demanded over the loudspeaker.  
  
I will not die like some hyena in the savannah, he swore. He fired two bursts of machine gun fire. One Dutch peacekeeper grabbed his shoulder and fell. His comrades immediately opened fire on the poacher.  
  
Artur spun violently as round after round of bullet fire toppled him over, then he collapsed onto the Congo grasslands. "Luthor," he gasped before fading into eternity. The herd of elephants glanced passively at the event, then moved on. There would be no poaching here. This time, the poachers were the prey.  
  
The U.N. major in charge of the pursuit swore. Artur van Kleet was wanted by Interpol and several African countries for illegal poaching. He could have provided valuable evidence on the ivory trade in central Africa.  
  
He looked at the bullet-riddled body of the dead poacher. "He was trying to say something. Too bad he's dead. He could have led us to some of his buyers. I'm not sure how much his buddies over there know about his contacts."  
  
The Congo sun continued to shine as the U.N. peacekeepers hauled the poacher's body on a crude stretcher and returned to their camp..  
  
This hunt was successful.  
  
[Luthor Corp. Canada offices, First Canadian Place, 9 p.m.]  
  
Lex and his former classmate, Doug, watched CBC's The National in the videoconference room.  
  
"... Gotham City industrialist Bruce Wayne has provided the RCMP with valuable leads on the possible identity of a shadowy German-based anarchy group ... considered by many to be the prime suspect in the sarin gas attack at the international conference in Toronto ..."  
  
"You knew this 'Liesl', too, you said," Doug noted, "How come you didn't approach the authorities with this information?"  
  
Lex studied the screen. Bruce effortlessly deflected reporters' questions like a seasoned pro. "Liesl and I were classmates in summer school," Bruce revealed, "I had heard rumours about her involvement in the anti- globalization movement. That's about all I can say at this point."  
  
"That's the difference between Bruce Wayne - and my family," Lex replied. "Whenever Mr. Wayne assists the authorities, he's cast as the dutiful citizen. A man of responsibility. No questions asked."  
  
"And whenever a Luthor steps before the camera ..." Doug began.  
  
"... every word we say, every gesture we make ... is taken with a grain of salt," Lex continued, "The media, the masses are ready to believe that Luthor - any Luthor - has a hidden agenda. An alterior motive. Bruce must carry the burden - if you can call it that - of maintaining the storied legend of Thomas Wayne. I, on the other hand, have to defend everything from my father's lobbying for drilling in Alaska, to his involvement in providing materiel and funding for CIA-engineered coups in the Third World. That's the legacy I am to inherit. Such as it is."  
  
"I think you're taking this family rivalry thing a bit too seriously," Doug argued.  
  
"Really," Lex pushed the evening edition of the Toronto Star across the table. "Bruce gets page two for breaking the "mystery" of the Fifth Column anarchists. I purge Galleon Shipping of corrupt directors, and all Luthor Corp. gets is a 50-word blurb in the Business section ..."  
  
Doug turned up the volume on the TV remote. "Hold on, something on the ivory trade ..."  
  
"... reports suggests that a company of U.N. peacekeepers exchanged fire with a group of ivory poachers on the Congo-Rwandan border, killing one and wounding six. The dead poacher, Artur van Kleet, was known to Interpol and wanted on an international warrant ..."  
  
"There, you see," Doug declared, "The good guys win this round."  
  
Maybe, Lex thought. I'm just concerned that my father may have more than a passing interest in the riches of the African continent. Billions could be made from its minerals, its diamonds, its offshore oil reserves. Within its jungles, the potential for scientific innovations could sustain Luthor Corp. into the next century.  
  
My father means to exploit those opportunities, he wondered. It would serve his interests.  
  
Does it serve mine?  
  
[VIA train, 20 km from Kingston, en route to Montreal, 11.30 a.m. -- Two days later]  
  
Outside the window, rocky outcroppings burst through the soil. This was the Canadian Shield - some of the oldest rock in the world. The trees still managed to cling to their red, gold and yellow leaves. Picturesque farmhouses. Little railroad towns with picket fences. The occasional cow. The passengers had time to enjoy the scenery of Eastern Ontario. They would not arrive in Montreal for another two hours.  
  
A server arrived with the lunchtime meal. "Would you like coffee, tea, juice ...?" the server asked.  
  
"I will have a cup of tea, please," one of the passengers replied. She smiled.  
  
How did I possibly find myself here, Liesl wondered. Alive. Free. She remembered that night ... two days ago. Bruce's friend had continued the pursuit, quite likely to avenge what seemed to be the death of Gotham City's favourite son. The engine had exploded into sparks and flame. Perhaps I had pushed it beyond its limits, she thought. Someone had yelled, "Jump!"  
  
Liesl savoured the warm tea as it soothed her throat. She had struggled with the speedboat's steering. The breakwall would be upon me in moments, she shuddered. I hurled myself into the lake. Darkness. Did I die?  
  
No. Above, I saw the hideous orange glow as my boat crashed into the wall. I was cut in the arm. I continued to swim. A smaller dock to the west. I pulled myself up onto the wooden boardwalk. In the distance, the police marine unit surrounded the crash site. Divers had begun the search for evidence.  
  
For the despicable terrorist whose sarin gas attack in Toronto had claimed eight delegates and hospitalized twenty-two. A senior executive with HyperChem -- one of the worst petrochemical firms in the United States - perished as the gas ripped his lungs to shreds. He deserved his fate. A doctor with Medecins sans Frontieres (Doctors without Borders) also died as he tried to help one of the first victims. She regretted that innocent people were killed or injured in the name of reawakening the revolution against Western gluttony.  
  
Regret, she repeated. Not remorse. And certainly not guilt. She looked at the stillness of the Ontario countryside. Yesterday was anything but peaceful. She had dragged herself to a Salvation Army store and managed to get a change of clothes. A quick subway ride and she had arrived at a west- end safehouse. Fifth Column was truly an international organization. Anything she bought from now on was paid for in cash. No troublesome credit card paper trails for the state's stormtroopers. That night, she stopped by a Radio Shack to pick up some cheap $25 digital watch. All the televisions were on the news.  
  
The only news. Bruce and Lex - visibly uncomfortable under the spotlight - sat with the police chief, RCMP chief, the U.S. ambassador, the deputy prime minister and a director of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Now Fifth Column would be known.  
  
The plan would have been perfect, if Wayne and Luthor didn't meddle. Lex offered to provide the Mounties with Luthor Corp.'s finest minds in chemical research. If they could trace the source of the gas, they could trace the buyers. Bruce pleaded with the anti-globalization movement to provide what little information they knew about this secretive German-based anarchy group.  
  
Fifth Column would simply disperse their cells - no more than two or three people - until the authorities have exhausted their leads. Then, they would regroup. Rearm. They can't stop us.  
  
They never will.  
  
She was about to pay for the watch when another report appeared. Video of her father, stepping outside the DaimlerChrysler headquarters. Heart- broken, he had to be supported by two of his friends. He thinks I'm dead, she frowned. I never meant to bring you grief, Father. He spent his whole life living and working. For me.  
  
He sacrificed everything to support me. Encourage me. And yes, get me out of trouble from time to time. Now - when it is too late - I realize that. God, I was so headstrong then. Still am.  
  
Perhaps it's best, she thought. Now, my parents can truly live. Not for me, but for themselves. As she boarded the VIA train at Union Station, she now had the freedom to live for herself too. A forged passport (I think I'll be a Dutch national) would allow her to buy a plane ticket for a connecting flight from Dorval to Brussels. She received word that Basque separatists had requested Fifth Column expertise for their on-going campaign against their Spanish overlords in Madrid. Lingering remnants of Greece's November 17 movement were planning to re-enter Greek politics with a bang. Across Europe, word spread about her devastating blow against The Establishment.  
  
The photos in her purse were faded. One when she was at her parents 15th wedding anniversary. Another of her class. Summer at l'Academie de Ste.- Anne. Lex mugging for the camera. Typical. Bruce at his surly best. Why did he seem so moody? His parents were killed when he was young, but that was all she knew. And me in the middle. Why was I so happy? I didn't have a care in the world back then.  
  
Now all the cares of the world are mine to bear ...  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
[Clark's 'Fortress of Solitude', Smallville - one week later]  
  
Clark typed on Yahoo! Messenger:  
  
Ckent2002: Really, I'm fine Chloe.  
  
Reportergrrl: The events in Toronto took a lot out of everyone. Mr. Shanahan finally decided to put his foot down and withdrew our class from the student conference. Despite my protests.  
  
Ckent2002: He only wanted to do what was best for us. He was worried about our safety.  
  
Reportergrrl: Well, you heard the Mounties. Even though this Liesl was part of that German anarchist group, she acted alone. Although ... they never found her body in Lake Ontario  
  
Ckent2002: You think ...?  
  
Reportergrrl: ... This is real-life, Clark, not an episode of 'Charmed'! Dead terrorists don't come back to life to seek revenge. Anyway, you're avoiding my question. You've been awfully quiet over the past few days. Are you sure you're okay?  
  
Ckent2002: Well, I guess my nerves are still a bit rattled. I mean, Bruce, Lex ... all of us ... could have died.  
  
Reportergrrl: But we didn't, Mr.-my-glass-is-half-empty. We survived. Fifth Column will have to disappear from the scene for now. The G-8 adopted a resolution to provide substantial debt relief for the poorest countries. I know it's just words, but who knows? Maybe they mean it this time. Gotta run. Layout for the Torch. 'Tempest in Toronto' Catchy, eh? One other thing, get a new nickname. Ckent2002 says nothing about your personality!  
  
Ckent2002: Well, what would you suggest?  
  
Reportergrrl: Hmmm ... how 'bout CaptainAmerica. Or Daredevil? I mean, you actually hopped onto a boat with Bruce Wayne to chase after a deadly anarchist psychopath! Lana and I agree: you are nuts.  
  
Ckent2002: Good night, Chloe ;)  
  
Clark shut down his computer and gazed through his telescope.  
  
"Trying to find your homeworld, Clark?" Pete joked.  
  
"Hey, Pete," Clark mumbled.  
  
"I know what that look means," Pete replied, "Something's eating at you. And it's not your usual does-Lana-like-me? look!"  
  
Clark held a copy of the Smallville Ledger. 'LUTHOR SON AVOIDS DEATH, SIDESTEPS IVORY SCANDAL'  
  
"It's that night," Pete stated, "when you went after Liesl."  
  
Clark sat beside Pete. "When she tossed that anchor at Bruce, I thought he was a goner for sure. Something just came over me. Pure, limitless ..."  
  
"Fear?" Pete tried to guess.  
  
"Rage," Clark muttered. "For a moment, I lost focus. I wanted to stop her. Whatever it took. I remember using my heat vision. The next thing that happened, her boat crashed into the wall and exploded. She's dead. And I caused it!"  
  
"Clark," Pete consoled, "She chose to be a nutcase. She was the one who killed those delegates. You just did what you had to do. I can't blame you for being totally pissed off at her. Bruce had just fallen overboard. You wanted payback. Hey, that's natural. Human."  
  
"But that's just it," Clark protested, "I'm not normal. Not human. If I can't keep my emotions in check, these - powers - might hurt somebody. A by- stander. A police officer."  
  
"A friend," Pete realized. "Look, I'm not super-powered. What I do know is that Clark Kent has always wanted to help people. You're not alone. You've got allies. Your folks. Me ..."  
  
"Lex," Clark nodded, and noticed that Pete frowned immediately. "I know you're not exactly part of the Luthor fan club."  
  
"Who, me?" Pete exclaimed. "Hey, Lex and me are two peas in a pod, man!"  
  
"Yeah, right," Clark smirked.  
  
Pete patted his friend on the shoulder. "You've got good instincts, Clark. It's not going to be easy. We'll get through it, okay? Together." Pete waved goodbye and left his friend alone in his fortress.  
  
The phone rang. "Hello, Clark speaking?"  
  
"Umm, Clark. It's Lex."  
  
"Hey, Lex. Something's up?"  
  
Lex re-read the email. Again. "I just wanted to let you know. To warn you."  
  
Clark paused. "Warn? About what?"  
  
Lex wiped his brow. "I received an email today. So did Bruce." Clark's mind raced. "What does it say?"  
  
Lex sat as his desk. "It says: 'We shall reap what we have sown. Salt the earth. Begin anew.'"  
  
Clark began to worry. "Has someone threatened you? Bruce? Have you told the authorities?"  
  
"I've informed the F.B.I and the governor's office," Lex replied. "Bruce made a few calls to his friends in the State Department. It's undoubtedly Fifth Column, playing a cat-and-mouse game. Hoping Bruce and I will crack. Don't worry. It'll take more than some crackpot, anonymous email to rattle me."  
  
Lex studied a favourite painting. Francisco de Goya's 'The Shootings of May Third 1808' One Spaniard, dressed in white, boldly defying Napoleon's troops as the French laid waste to his comrades. Goya portrayed the sheer barbarity of war. Its inhumanity, its lack of reason. The gas attack in Toronto made no sense to him.  
  
But did Liesl cast herself as that lone Spaniard, facing certain death yet defying his fate? Or was she among those nameless foot soldiers, who perpetuated the endless cycle of violence?  
  
She's dead. She must be. He wanted to believe that it was so. Her body was never found, however.  
  
"Just be careful," Lex cautioned Clark, "If you hear or see anything that's out of place, let me know. I'll be damned if I'm going to let those radicals harm your family."  
  
Lex looked at the painting again. At the man in white. He shivered. I escaped disaster, thanks to Bruce Wayne's sharp eyes. I don't like depending on others for my survival. That includes my father.  
  
I make my fate, he thought. That man in white ... I won't be backed against a wall like some conquered peasant.  
  
The email concluded with one line: "This is only the beginning."  
  
Yes, it is, he agreed. Fifth Column, you've made yourself an enemy.  
  
Lex frowned. He did not plan on becoming a martyr. He would use every device at his disposal to harass, thwart and crush the upstart anarchy group.  
  
Nothing would matter, except his conquest over their terror tactics. Their warped ideals.  
  
When it happened, it would be his prize - his victory - to claim.  
  
THE END 


End file.
